Quote

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: May 31
Died: 1892
Died: March 26
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Nurse
Poet
Writer
West Hills
New York
Walter Whitman
Even
Customs
Like
Throat
Lull
Grass
Lulls
Stop
Lecture
Voice
Custom
Words
Lectures
Best
Rhyme
Music
Loose

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This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people.
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It is only the novice in political economy who thinks it is the duty of government to make its citizens happy - government has no such office.
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Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you/ That you may be my poem/ I whisper with my lips close to your ear/ I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me.
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I tramp a perpetual journey.
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The real war will never get in the books.
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I refuse putting from me the best that I am.
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Oh while I live, to be the ruler of life, not a slave, to meet life as a powerful conqueror, and nothing exterior to me will ever take command of me.
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I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
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Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
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This is the city, and I am one of the citizens/Whatever interests the rest interests me
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Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves, As souls only understand souls.
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Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the wounded,) Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
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But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.
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Ah little recks the laborer, How near his work is holding him to God, The loving Laborer through space and time
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To me the sea is a continual miracle The fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships, with men in them, what stranger miracles are there?
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I loafe and invite my soul.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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